


Taste Test

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [24]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a food fiend, Chocolate, Food Kink, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Sex and Chocolate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: The angel tilts his half-empty glass towards him. “I don’t need to know the precise numbers, but I can assure you I can remember them all.”For a long moment, Crowley stares at him, golden eyes dark and speculative. “Bet you can’t.” Before Aziraphale can protest, he holds up a hand. “No. Listen. I’ll recreate… oh… let’s start with ten, and you have to identify them. When I win, I get to choose my prize.”“When you win?” Azirahale laughs in disbelieving outrage. “When?” He straightens in his chair. “Oh, my dear, you underestimate me.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Hunger [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1407112
Comments: 21
Kudos: 151





	Taste Test

**Author's Note:**

> Been a while since I've played with these lads, eh? Time for a bit of food smut in time for Christmas :D

“Bollocks!”

Aziraphale gives a prim sniff. “I _can_.”

Crowley rocks back deeper into his corner of the settee, his wine-glass dangling from his fingertips over the arm. They’ve been working their way through several bottles to celebrate… something. The nice weather, maybe. Or the first spring blossoms on their apple tree in their garden. Something anyway. Enough that they are both warm and tipsy and Crowley is sprawled out, delightfully louche, his cheeks charmingly pink.

“D’you know how _many_ you’ve had? More than three centuries worth?”

The angel tilts his half-empty glass towards him. “I don’t need to know the precise numbers, but I can assure you I can remember them all.”

For a long moment, Crowley stares at him, golden eyes dark and speculative. “Bet you can’t.” Before Aziraphale can protest, he holds up a hand. “No. Listen. I’ll recreate… oh… let’s start with ten, and you have to identify them. When I win, I get to choose my prize.”

“When you win?” Azirahale laughs in disbelieving outrage. “ _When_?” He straightens in his chair. “Oh, my dear, you underestimate me.”

Crowley’s grin turns wide and snakey. “Is that a bet, then?”

“I should say so.”

The demon sits up. “Okay. Ground rules.” He marks them off on his fingers. “One – blindfolded. This is a taste test only. Two – you don’t get to touch them, except with your mouth. Three – I want origin, type and year range.” He arches an eyebrow in challenge. “Sound reasonable?”

“If anything, it sounds _easy_ ,” Aziraphale retorts primly. He contemplates his glass for a moment. “With or without chemical inhibitors?”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. Doesn’t count if you’re too drunk to tell,” he agrees grudgingly. He flaps his free hand. “Sober away.”

The moment of going from very merry to very sober is never pleasant, the bottles wobbling on the coffee table as they both clear their systems of the stuff. Oh Lord, the aftertaste is foul and Aziraphale smacks his lips.

“I’m going to get some water,” he says, rising. “I need a fresh palate for this.”

By the time he returns, the discarded wine bottles and glasses are gone and Crowley is looking altogether too pleased with himself, his all black clothes replaced with a waiter’s attire, his scarlet waistcoat and little black bowtie very catching. He even has a familiar strip of silk draped over his arm like a napkin. A serving trolley stands in the middle of the floor, several platters covered with silver salvers.

“Keen to get started, are we?” Aziraphale teases, setting his glass on the trolley in passing.

Crowley flashes a grin. “If sir would take a seat,” he says, indicating to Aziraphale’s wing-backed armchair.

Aziraphale sits down demurely, trying his best to hide his smile. They don’t often play silly games like this, but when they do, he always finds it delightful how much Crowley enjoys himself. He folds his hands in his lap, closing his eyes.

“Very good, sir,” Crowley murmurs and Aziraphale hears the whisper of silk on fabric a moment before the length of cool cloth settles over his eyes. Slim fingers smooth it in place, gently nudging the tips of his ears to keep them from being trapped, and draw softly tighter. “How’s that?”

“Perfectly comfortable,” Aziraphale replies, settling back in the chair.

“Course you are,” Crowley chuckles and tweaks the end of his nose.

“Crowley!”

The clatter of the salver being lifted aside makes him sit him, inhaling to catch the scent. There are several chocolates on that platter from the smell of it, a mix of dark and lighter varieties. Crowley hums as if making a dramatic decision.

“Ah!” he says softly. “Mouth open, angel.”

Aziraphale obeys at once, offering his tongue as a bed for the chocolate morsel.

The chocolate is deliciously bitter, barely larger than the knuckle of his thumb. He rolls it on his tongue, taking in the shape and texture, then bit down. Not a solid chocolate. A softer, slightly sweeter centre. Not as much sugar as later variations.

The angel smiles, swallowing the chocolate. “Neuhaus,” he says. “One of their _guimauves_ , before they really expanded their repertoire.” He frowns in thought. “I would say 1870s?”

Crowley gives a chuckle. “That was an easy one to get you started. Now…” He hums, then his fingertips cup lightly under Aziraphale’s chin. “Ready?”

Aziraphale parts his lips like a baby bird awaiting food.

This chocolate is small. Smaller than he expected, and despite the fact he hasn’t bitten down, a sharp, sweet flavour floods his senses. He frowns, probing it with the tip of his tongue. The flavour he knows, but it should be–

“Oh, you scoundrel!” he exclaims when he swallows it. “You cut it into pieces! No wonder it seemed wrong!”

Crowley hoots with laughter. “I couldn’t exactly shove the whole thing in your mouth!” He solicitously brushes a smudge of chocolate from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth with his thumb. “So? What was this one?”

Aziraphale licks the flavour from inside his cheek. “Sprüngli,” he says. “Zurich version.” He smacks his lips again. “Around 1879, when they started playing with flavour. A hint of orange fondant. Not their best, but very good for an early example.”

“You mean Lindt.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Oh you want the current name, do you?”

“Show off,” Crowley grumbles cheerfully. Forefinger and thumb curve under Aziraphale’s chin lightly. “You’ll need to take a bite of this one.”

Aziraphale parts his lips and makes a sound of pleased surprise at the flaked texture of a truffle. He closes his teeth on it, fragments crumbing on his lips and he can feel them falling, a sound of alarm catching in his throat as his hands leap automatically.

“Don’t worry.” Crowley tweaks his chin gently. “I caught them.” Something rattled on the trolley, then a warm fingertip of Crowley’s other hand gently guides the clinging flakes between Aziraphale’s lips. And how can he resist the urge to dart out his tongue and lick that fingertip clean?

Crowley’s breath hisses between his teeth, which Aziraphale only takes as invitation to softly suck the very tip of Crowley’s finger and kiss it once before sitting back.

“That’s _not_ identifying the chocolate,” Crowley growls hoarsely.

Aziraphale folds his hands demurely, concentrating on the chocolate still resting on his tongue. Ground nuts mingled with chocolate flakes on the outside. “Chambéry,” he says slowly. “Hazelnut praline.” He licks thoughtfully at his teeth. “That charming little chocolaterie we went to in 1953.”

“I’d’ve been embarrassed for you if you mucked that one up.” Crowley sounds amused. “You went on about them for long enough after.”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale grumbles amiably. “Just because you don’t appreciate them.”

“I know what I like,” Crowley retorts, rattling on the tray. “Ready?”

Aziraphale tilts his head back a little and opens his mouth.

A solid bead of chocolate lands on his tongue. He frowns, letting it sit for a moment, then smiles as the chocolate dissolves around the perfectly roasted coffee bean at the centre. He tucks it into his cheek to observe. “I recall you like this.”

“That so?” Crowley is smiling and his knees knock on either side of Aziraphale’s, the warmth of him swaying closer until the whisper of his breath on Aziraphale’s lips is tangible. “Care to share?”

Aziraphale’s hands blindly find his hips, pulling him closer as their lips meet. The teasing fork of Crowley’s tongue darts along the angel’s lips before dipping inside, though it’s hardly a kiss and more of a smash and grab as Crowley steals the bean and steps back with a triumphant “Aha!”

“Scoundrel,” Aziraphale laughs as Crowley retreats out of reach.

“Pfft.” Crowley nudges his knee against the angel’s. “After all the times you’ve pinched my dessert, I think you can spare a single bean.”

“Just this once,” Aziraphale agrees, smiling. “May I have a little water?”

“Fuss, fuss, fuss,” Crowley sighs. “Honestly, I do all the work around here.” Still he steps close again and cups Aziraphale’s chin with one hand and touches a cool glass of water to his lips with the other, tilting it gently.

A drop escapes the corner of the angel’s mouth, trickling down his chin only to be caught by a deft lick of a forked tongue.

“That,” Aziraphale murmurs impishly as Crowley lifts the glass away, “is not identifying the chocolate.”

“Menace,” Crowley says happily. The glass clinks back on the trolley and there’s a rattle as another salver is moved. This time, the scent of chocolate is even stronger, rich and fragrant and laced with hints of cinnamon. “Right. Ready?”

Aziraphale obligingly opens his mouth.

This time, the chocolate isn’t even solid.

The back of a spoon skims his lower lip and he very nearly moans in pleasure as the familiar rich chocolate pours over his tongue. His hands flutter in front of him and he licks his lips greedily to capture it all.

“Sloane’s,” he says in delight. Oh, how he missed the popularity for chocolate shops and the tasty Sloane mixtures. “You have Sloane’s!”

“Course I do.” Crowley cups his cheek. “I know you, angel.” And without preamble, he offers the rim of a cup, the smooth slide of porcelain cool on Aziraphale’s lower lip.

Aziraphale takes a sip, then another, the spices and creaminess of the hot chocolate utterly delicious. He knows the sounds he’s making are probably quite indecent, but it’s been such a long time, and he reaches out gratefully, drawing Crowley closer. When the cup clatters on the trolley, he only has a second’s notice before Crowley’s mouth is on his again, drinking little laps of hot chocolate from his mouth.

Crowley curls over him, cupping Aziraphale’s head between his hands, their tongues darting and licking at one another, the mix of a dozen flavours clinging to them. He brought Aziraphale’s old favourites, deliberately surprised him with them, and Aziraphale can only wrap his arms more snugly around his hips.

“This isn’t playing the game,” Crowley murmurs into his mouth.

“Bugger the game,” Aziraphale replies just as huskily.

He feels Crowley’s smile between several more languorous kisses.

“Just wait,” Crowley says softly, leaning back, but he doesn’t pull out of Aziraphale’s embrace. The rattle of the trolley suggests it has been pulled closer and there’s a soft, glutinous sound. “Open up.”

Aziraphale only pouts a little at the loss of kisses, but open his mouth once more.

Two fingers, thick with rich chocolate slide between them, stroking onto his tongue.

“Mm!” Instinct makes him suck on them and pleasure makes him lick, exploring every sticky inch of Crowley’s fingers.

Of course he remembers this kind. The first time he indulged in a proper chocolate fondue. The first time he had watched Crowley eat as raptly as Crowley usually watched him. The first time he had really longingly wished to suck the sweetness from Crowley’s dripping fingers.

He moans in satisfaction, the flavour, the memories, the warm, probing pressure of Crowley’s fingers. He can’t help kneading at Crowley’s backside with his hand, heat roiling through him.

“New York. 1985,” Crowley purrs close to his ear, thrusting his fingers slowly in and out. “You stared at me like I was your dessert.” He whips his hand away and before Aziraphale can protest, it’s back, thick with chocolate and sticky and Aziraphale can’t bring himself to fret about any mess, demandingly wrapping lips and tongue around Crowley’s fingers again. “D’you think I couldn’t see you looking, you filthy thing? Thinking about _this_ when I was sucking my fingers clean?”

Aziraphale can only make small helpless sounds around Crowley’s fingers. Oh yes, he had thought about it. For several days – weeks even – afterwards. Never imagining it would ever be a possibility, not when they had spent so many centuries dancing on the edge of it.

“You’d eat me up, wouldn’t you, angel?” There’s awe in Crowley’s voice. Reverence. Wonder. The fingers of his other hand curl through Aziraphale’s hair, tugging gently. “Take all that I’d give you and more, wouldn’t you?”

The angel nods, uttering a plaintive sound with spit-slick fingers slid from his mouth again. But they linger, tilting his chin, and Crowley lifts his other hand instead, snapping his fingers. The air changes, the sharp crack of gunsmoke and power. His skin is suddenly bare under Aziraphale’s palms and skittering angelic fingers encounter familiar straps slung snug around his lover’s hips.

A chocolate- and saliva-smooth thumb presses down on his lower lip, urging his mouth open.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes as Crowley steps that little bit closer, his knees framed by Aziraphale’s thighs, so close he’s all but leaning against the chair between.

“Lean forward.” Crowley’s voice is hoarse. “Just a little.” His hand returns to the back of Aziraphale’s head, gently guiding him, until the angel’s lips brush something neither flesh nor chocolate.

Perhaps it’s a little naughty, but the fingers were nice and he can’t help but imagine more–

“It’s missing something,” he murmurs, rubbing his lips lightly over the head. “I was promised ten chocolates.”

Crowley’s chuff of laughter makes him smile, stupid and fond, and there’s another moist, slick sound, then a rude thumb presses between his lips, smearing them. “Don’t say I don’t spoil you, you cheeky bugger,” the demon says happily, withdrawing his thumb and replacing it with the thicker, firmer chocolate-smeared length of his favourite toy.

Aziraphale tilts his head with a happy groan to accommodate it, sucking the length of Crowley’s toy down, laving it clean with his tongue. He bobs his head, rocking it back against Crowley’s body in the way that makes his lover hiss between his teeth and utter soft profanities even while clutching at Aziraphale’s hair.

His mouth is positively dripping, sloppy and chocolatey. He’s no doubt making a mess everywhere, but couldn’t care less as Crowley rocks more hungrily against his face, chasing his own pleasure as Aziraphale’s own rises. The hot ache is spreading through him as he kneads at Crowley’s bare hip, the thought of the tableau they present – Crowley, stark-naked, ravishing his mouth, his own body fully-dressed and decorous – making him light headed.

He lifts his head, breathing hard. “Crowley?”

“Ngh?”

“I–” His words dry up, mouth too sticky sweet, and he mutely reaches down, pressing a hand implicitly to the swell that is jutting painfully hard against his trousers.

Abruptly, Crowley isn’t touching him. The slide of metal on leather is like a whisper in the quiet, then something clatters on the floor.

“Knees in,” Crowley growls and as soon as he obeys, nimble fingers are on his trousers, unfastening his buttons and releasing his aching shaft. “Satan’s tits, angel… all this from a bit of chocolate?” He laughs and curls his hand, squeezing. Aziraphale groans, pushing up against him. “I’m amazed you didn’t get us kicked out of Whites!”

It’s hard to be indignant when a very enthusiastic demon is stroking you quite so nicely, but Aziraphale does his best to glare as much as he can through the blindfold.

“Really, dear…” The breath hitches between his teeth. “Oh Lord.”

Crowley releases him and at once, skinny knees slide on either side of his thighs, the chair thankfully wide enough for the demon to pin him against the back, the slick heat of his body tantalisingly brushing over Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale’s breath hitches as Crowley sinks down, teasingly grinding against him.

“You– oh!”

“For a change,” Crowley murmurs, nuzzling into his throat. And with a rock of his hips, he sinks himself down onto Aziraphale’s erection, the heat and tightness of his body very nearly enough to finish Aziraphale on the spot.

The angel catches his hips, holding him still, breathing too hard. “A moment.”

Crowley chuckles, wiggling playfully. “Easily pleased, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale juts out his lip. “You can’t tell,” he says a little hoarsely, “but I’m glaring at you.”

Lips touch his. “I can tell,” Crowley purrs, then starts to move. It’s not his usual frenetic pace, lovely slow rolls of his hips, pushing Aziraphale deeper, the slick wet sound of their bodies moving together unbearably erotic. When he leans back, Aziraphale very nearly wails aloud, but his mouth is abruptly stoppered by chocolate-dripping fingers again. A different kind. And he sucks and licks and the wriggling demon in his lap rocks in pace with the sharp, urgent flicks of his tongue.

The heat, the taste, the sound of Crowley’s hot rasping breaths in his ear, the thunder of his heart, the bittersweet sharpness and spice and so many overwhelming sensations send him crashing over the brink, groaning his release around saliva-strung fingers.

And Crowley keeps moving, slowing his pace, dragging Aziraphale’s unresisting hand down, shamelessly using the angel’s thicker fingers to help him finish, both of them sopping and wet and happily breathless.

Aziraphale drops his head against the back of the chair, breathing in deeply. “Mm.”

“Mm?” Crowley nuzzles at his throat, still idly rubbing Aziraphale’s fingers between their bodies.

The angel smiles. “Versailles. 1743.”

Crowley sits up a little straighter. “Eh?”

“The chocolate. Versailles. 1743.”

“And _that_ ’s what you were thinking about?” Crowley sounds like he’s smiling despite the mock offended tone in his voice. “And here I thought slapping a fanny on was a nice treat.”

Aziraphale dissolves into helpless laughter. “You’re the one who put it in my mouth, dear,” he teases, stroking across Crowley’s clit gently. His other hand kneads her thigh. “Perhaps I should make it up to you, offending you like that.”

“Oh yeah?” Crowley is already rolling his hips against Aziraphale’s hand.

“Mm. Kneel up.”

Slick with spend, Crowley’s body is hot against his fingertips and he basks in the low sigh of satisfaction as he plunges two fingers into him, stroking his thumb in slow, rhythmic circles on Crowley’s clit. Crowley hisses as he pushes his fingers deeper, resuming the serpentine roll of his hips, rutting against Aziraphale’s hand, one hand falling to clutch at Aziraphale’s shoulder as his movement become more and more urgent.

“That’s lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You feel like you’re having a lovely time.”

“Not. Lovely.” Crowley growls out, shuddering as his body clamps greedily on Aziraphale’s fingers, and he shivers through his release.

Aziraphale smiles serenely, resuming the lazy stroke of his hand as Crowley’s hips still, the demon’s thighs quivering over his. “I disagree.”

Crowley makes a rude noise, sinking back down to sit in his lap. “You would.” He sags there comfortably. “Fancy another chocolate?”

“Don’t I always?”

A rich caramel confection is plopped promptly on his tongue and he shews it thoughtfully as Crowley solicitously tucks his limp penis back into his trousers.

“Crowley,” he murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Do I want to take the blindfold off just now?”

There’s a long silence, in which Crowley cautiously dabs at his waistcoat. “Yeah. No. Probably not.” He squirms a little closer, until the concave of his belly curves over the convex of Aziraphale’s. “I’ll clean up after.”

Aziraphale loops his arms happily around Crowley’s waist, knowing that would always have been the case, as it had been for so many years. “Thank you, darling.”

Crowley snorts and shoves another chocolate in his mouth. “Shaddup, angel.”


End file.
